SCENE_01
Eleven PM, the Cursor at the Sign-Off Line
The laptop is still open on the kitchen table after everyone else has gone to bed. You find the same draft you've found every Sunday for months: a resignation email, unfinished, the sign-off line still blinking where a name should go. You reread the second paragraph, the one where you almost explain why, and you feel the familiar pull to fix a word that doesn't need fixing.
SCENE_02
Deleting It Is How You Promise Monday You're Still In
Keeping the draft would mean admitting you've been rehearsing an exit, so you select the text and delete it, the way you do every week, and close the laptop like the decision is closed too. The unwritten rule is that as long as no version of that email survives past midnight, you haven't really considered leaving—you can walk into Monday having proven, again, that you're the one who stays and carries it.
SCENE_03
Keep the Sentence, Not the Sunday Ritual
The draft isn't proof you're trapped; it's the one honest inventory you write of what this costs you, and erasing it every week just erases the evidence along with the ritual. Tonight, instead of deleting, save the paragraph somewhere only you can find and add one line: what would actually have to change before you'd send it. You can decide nothing tonight and still stop discarding what you already know.